


bloodstream

by foolondahill17



Series: things Dean doesn't tell Sam [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depressed Dean Winchester, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Overdose, Sharing a Bed, Sick Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 19:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17
Summary: When you thought I was dead…what did you do?Dean’s not going to tell Sammy. He’s not going to tell his little brother about the handful of benzos and oxycodone still churning in his system, because Sammy’s breathing hard through the gunshot in his gut, and Dean’s not going to add to Sam’s already extensive list of problems. And Dean knows how Sammy gets whenever Dean tries to trade his life in for his little brother’s. It’s never been something Sam takes well. So Dean isn’t going to tell him.Sam and Dean spend a night on the floor of a motel bathroom after the events of 11.17
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: things Dean doesn't tell Sam [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1506398
Comments: 11
Kudos: 295





	bloodstream

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags: trigger warnings include suicidality and a descriptions of depression (because, shit, did Len's explanation of what it felt to be soulless in 11x5 hit close to home...minus the whole sociopathy thing, tho).
> 
> Find me on Tumblr where I psychoanalyze the boys, dissect incredibly minute details about the show, post bits and pieces about my fic, and look for friends: [foolondahill17](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/foolondahill17)

It wasn’t a suicide attempt. 

Dean knows that’s what it looks like. But it _wasn’t._ It fucking wasn’t. 

_When you thought I was dead…what did you do?_

Dean’s not going to tell Sammy. He’s not going to tell his little brother about the handful of benzos and oxycodone still churning in his system, because Sammy’s breathing hard through the gunshot in his gut, and Dean’s not going to add to Sam’s already extensive list of problems. And Dean knows how Sammy gets whenever Dean tries to trade his life in for his little brother’s. It’s never been something Sam takes well. So Dean isn’t going to tell him. 

Plus, things have been better between them lately. They’re both being more open. A little more trusting (Dean told Sam about that frikken weird Amara shit, right? That uncontrollable, helpless yaerning Dean gets in the pit of his stomach whenever he’s around her, even if he didn’t use so many words). And Sam’s somehow gotten it into his head that they’ve decided not to fight over the really big stuff anymore. So, if Dean chose to – if he fucking decided then, well, Sam doesn’t have to know. Because Dean isn’t going to ruin the fact that things have been better between them lately. Better then they’ve been in a helluva long time. 

And it’s not like – 

Dean is _fine._

Sure, he told Michelle that if the doc couldn’t bring him back, then no hard feelings, but that was just collateral damage. A necessary sacrifice for what was really on the line here: Sammy. Always Sammy. 

Anyway, fuck it, Dean decided a while ago that if he was ever going to seriously try to off himself, he wouldn’t use pills. 

Too messy. Too much risk that it wouldn’t finish the job and he’d end up puking his guts out over a toilet in some Godforsaken, miserable motel bathroom, skull splintering from ear to ear and each retch playing xylophone on his fractured ribs. 

Dean’s stomach jerks and he gags helplessly as another stream of foul, weak bile spills out of his mouth. His eyes and nose are streaming. He doesn’t even know what he’s bringing up at this point, because it’s not like he’s eaten anything since lunch, and the last thing he drank was that grape-flavored Pediatric Electrolyte he used to down the pills. 

Dean smothers a groan. He doesn’t want Sammy to hear him. His brother needs rest; the doctor made Dean promise he’d keep his brother in bed for a day, at least, so he doesn’t put undue strain on his stitches. Dean left the lamp off in the bathroom so he didn’t accidentally rouse Sam with the light. 

Dean throws up again – _Godfuckingdammit_ ¬– and gasps through the resulting pain that ripples through his body, churning up from his stomach and webbing outward. 

It feels like all his organs are rearranging themselves, are tearing each other to pieces with sharp teeth, spitting each other out again, and knitting back together wherever they happen to fit. And maybe that’s what he’s throwing up: his frikken liver or some shit. He really should turn on the light, just to make sure he’s not puking coffee grounds, because he’s in serious trouble if there’s internal bleeding, like real _Sammy, I think I need to go to the ER_ kinda crap. 

The lights snap on. 

Dean moans and squeezes his eyes shut as the brightness assaults his retinas. A red flare bleeds through his closed eyelids as he’s suddenly immersed in flames. 

“Dean, what…?” says Sam’s voice. 

_Fuck. Fuck this fucking shit._

“Go back t’bed S’mmy,” Dean slurs and tries to shoot a glare at Sam in the doorway, standing bleary-eyed and braced with one hand against the door jam and one around his middle, but the movement slants the bathroom dangerously and then Dean’s back to choking over the toilet. He squints into the bowl, just to make sure, and there’s no blood. Not yet, anyway. 

Sam shuffles closer, and, dammit, he’s supposed to be in _bed._ Because, last time Dean checked, he’d been shot in the _fucking stomach._ And these are all things Dean wants to say to his brother; he wants to get off the floor and manhandle Sam back to the mattress, but Dean’s voice is lost in the constant tide of roiling nausea, and his muscles are so weak that his entire body is quivering. 

“Concussion?” Sam guesses. 

“Mmmh.” Dean gives Sam a noncommittal hum. It’s easier if Sam draws his own conclusions. Anyway, Dean’s head hurts enough for it just to be the concussion, even though he knows it isn’t. His entire body hurts: a bone-deep, pulsing ache that embeds itself into Dean’s sinew, calcifies, and becomes a second skeleton. 

Dean spits into the bowl then raises a sluggish arm to wipe his face on his sleeve. He drops his head and leans his forehead against the toilet seat which is, admittedly, a little gross, but at least the porcelain is cool against his flushed and sweat-drenched skin. 

“Dude,” Sam huffs in his special voice reserved just for Dean in situations like this, all exasperation and concern. His _what the fuck, Dean?_ and _what do you need?_ tone rolled into one. He steps closer. Dean hears Sam clap a hand to the sink to keep himself standing. 

“S’mmy,” Dean clumsily lifts an arm, searches for his brother’s body in the darkness so he can bat him away. “No…you’re…go bed.” 

“You should have told me, Dean!” Sam’s still there. And he’s all hands: one gigantor paw lands on Dean’s shoulder, clutches tightly enough for Dean to wince and Dean’s not sure if it’s for Dean’s benefit or to keep Sam on his feet, and the other finds Dean’s forehead, forces Dean to lift his face away from the toilet. “Dude, look at me,” Sam says through his teeth. 

“Stahh…leggo,” Dean means to tell Sam to stop, to keep his hands to himself, but his throat isn’t working very well and he manages only to gulp like a frikken fish, swallowing bile. 

“Did they at least check you out while we were at the clinic?” Sam insists. His thumb finds one of Dean’s eyelids and peels it open. Painful lights zigzag across Dean’s vision. Dean tries to duck his head away from Sam’s grip, but his hand is ridiculously large, and, even with the gunshot, near suffocation, and blood loss, Sam is clearly the stronger of the two right now, considering the fact Sam’s actually on his feet and Dean is, well, _not._

But Dean’s feeble twist of his head manages to shake Sam’s thumb off his eyelid, and Dean’s vision slides back into glorious, still darkness. There’s a battering-ram inside his head. Someone inside is trying to crack through his skull. Dean curls inward, braces his elbows on his thighs, and smothers his face with both hands, each breath sawing through his throbbing ribs. 

“Dean, man, you gotta –” Sam breathes out an irritated sigh that turns into a poorly concealed wheeze of pain, and when he continues, his voice is markedly fiercer, “Shit. You have to let me check you out. This is serious.” 

“Is…is not –” Dean pauses to swallow down the rising pain. “Not the concussion,” he concedes weakly, because he can’t bear the thought of being poked and prodded by Dr. Winchester-I-presume right now. 

“Then what is it?” Sam says. There’s a definite edge of anger to his voice now, bypassing frustration and going right for the throat. Or maybe it’s just his brother’s pain and exhaustion talking. 

“Sammy, I’m _fine._” Dean stuffs every ounce of resolve into the word. It hurts coming up his throat, scratching itself into his esophagus and Dean thinks he can taste blood in his mouth, and he really hopes that’s just his imagination because if it’s not, well, that’s not great. 

He didn’t really think about what happens after an overdose. If he’s being honest, he hadn’t really thought there would be an _after._ And maybe that doesn’t fit super well into his not-suicide narrative, but whatever, because there should be a different word for killing yourself if it means saving someone else. Martyrdom or some shit. It wasn’t fucking suicide when Dean made that crossroads deal. Sammy didn’t bitch about – 

Well, yeah. Okay. Sammy _did_ bitch about that. He bitched about that plenty. But this is fucking different. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam snaps, and then he sucks in a sharp breath, “_Dammit!_” 

There’s enough raw pain in Sam’s voice, that Dean’s head immediately snaps up from his hands. He blinks against the blinding light in the bathroom and his eyes can’t quite focus on his brother standing over him, so Sam’s just a pale blur, kinda bugging in and out like he’s a reflection in a funhouse mirror, and both his arms are wrapped around his stomach; his face is screwed up in pain. 

“Sam,” Dean says urgently. Fear jumps to his throat and makes him lucid. He pushes upward with his palms to the cool linoleum floor. “The doctor said you should be in bed!” Dean’s voice is breathless. He sounds like he’s begging. And, okay. Dean’s okay with begging if it means Sammy stops hurting. 

“Dean –” Sam says in warning.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean fumbles for his brother, not entirely sure what he’s grabbing for, but just wanting to _do_ something, help him in some way that he wasn’t able to help him before. “Just – just take more of your meds, or, nnh –”

Agony shudders through his body like Dean’s been hit by a freight train. Dean’s muscles spasm and contract. He’s aware of an animal somewhere nearby, whimpering with a strangled, high-pitched whine. The ground tilts. Gravity stops making any kind of sense at all. 

“Dean, _shit,_” says Sammy somewhere within the weird, kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that fill Dean’s vision, sounding hurt and scared and, dammit, gotta get to Sammy, gotta save Sammy, gotta – _fuck_ but Dean hurts like a _motherfucker._

Finally, Dean’s body goes limp again, pain bleeding away to a manageable degree, and Dean’s on the floor, curled up tightly on his good side with his shoulder pressed against the bathtub and his head inches from the toilet.

Dean pants for breath. Sweat beads at his hairline. He shivering, suddenly unbearably cold. 

“Dean, breathe. Breathe, man, come on.” Sammy’s hands are back again, holding Dean’s shoulder. Dean cracks an eyelid and sees that Sammy’s kneeling on the floor, peering at Dean through wide, worried eyes. 

“Mh,” Dean tries, swallows, and tries again. “M okay, Sammy. Is just…just…ribs.” The lie throttles Dean a little on its way out, but it’s not entirely a lie, because his ribs really are giving him hell, and Sammy’s not going to get anymore of the truth. 

“Let me see,” says Sam gently, already reaching to roll Dean’s shirt up. “If it’s that bad, Dean, I’ve got Vicodin to spare. Or maybe –”

“No,” Dean hisses fiercely, and he immediately knows he’s raised a red flag, by the way Sam’s eyebrows disappear into the lank hair covering his forehead, but Sam was about to say _or maybe I should drag your ass to a hospital,_ and Dean can’t go to a hospital, because a hospital means questions, and questions mean answers, and Dean isn’t going to give any answers. 

“Whatever, man,” Sammy rolls his eyes, exhaling an impatient breath. He scans Dean’s chest. His hand leaves Dean’s shoulder and finds Dean’s bruised side. 

“Sammy, s-stop.” Dean squirms under Sam’s touch as fire licks up Dean’s ribs. “It’s fucking fine – the doc checked me out.” 

“Dean.” Sammy’s hands go still. His voice makes Dean’s heart stutter in his throat. “What’s this?” Sam’s thumb flicks across something on Dean’s chest, a pinprick bruise over his heart, and _shit_. 

Dean shuts his eyes. He lets his head fall back on the cold, hard floor, releases a breath carefully to give himself time. He feels naked, exposed, and bisected under Sam’s gaze. His heart and brain race as Dean tries to think of some kind of excuse, something that will convince Sammy that – 

It wasn’t a fucking suicide attempt. Dean knows what it looks like, but it wasn’t a fucking suicide attempt.

Panic and pain make Dean’s brain too flighty to snatch ahold of any kind of credible reply. His silence gives Sammy too much of an opening. 

“This is a puncture wound, man,” says Sam. His voice is relatively even, but Dean can still hear the undercurrent of anger there. Dean keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to look at his brother right now. “Dean, did you need epinephrine?” 

“Fuck, Sam.” The words are heavy as Dean drags them from his chest and up his throat. His body hurts. He is so fucking tired he could cry. 

But he’s not going to cry. Crying is the last thing he is going to do. 

“Dean,” and suddenly Sam doesn’t sound angry as much as he sounds frantically, unbearably concerned and suspicious. “Why did you need epinephrine?” 

“Sammy, please just –” Dean’s throat wobbles helplessly for a minute as he struggles to find the right words. “Just leave it. Please.” Suddenly he’s twenty-eight, and he’s choking _don’t get mad at me don’t you do that._

Sam’s hands disappear from Dean’s chest. Dean’s shirt falls back into place. Dean hears Sam’s body shifting, and he opens his eyes a sliver to see that Sam’s leaning with his back braced against the vanity, knees bent to accommodate the small space. His socked feet touch the opposite wall. Sam’s head tilts backward. His face points toward the ceiling and his eyes close. He breathes deep, slow breaths through his nose, whether he’s trying to level through his irritation or through his pain, Dean can’t tell. 

And Dean hadn’t meant for this to happen. It’s supposed to be the other way around: Dean’s supposed to take care of Sammy. Sammy’s not supposed to take care of Dean, not for something like this. 

Dean’s fine. He’s fucking fine. And Sammy’s fucking _shot._

“Did you –” Sam’s voice cuts off. He makes a fist and taps it against his thigh. “Shit,” he breathes. “Do I even wanna know?”

Dean smiles weakly. “Probably not, Sammy.” Which is definitely the wrong thing to say. As good as a signed confession. 

Sam sighs. He sounds so somber, so utterly wrecked, and Dean can’t bear the thought that he’s the reason Sammy sounds like that. 

“Did you take something?” Sam guesses, damn that overly large, superhuman brain of his. “At the clinic. When I was – did you try –”

Dean really doesn’t want Sam to finish that sentence. 

“Please, Sam.” Dean doesn’t mean to sound so pathetic. He doesn’t know when he stopped being able to fight back. Before, Dean would have come at his brother swinging. He would have jumped at Sam with angry, frightened words, needling his brother until Sam got so fed-up, he stopped picking at Dean’s scabs. 

But now Dean just feels so tired. Aching and exhausted. 

Dean feels done. And he can’t shake the weird, suffocating heaviness he’s somehow picked up along the road. It hangs around his shoulders like a shroud. He remembers Len, the Lizzie-blog guy who took the fall for all the ax murders: _I don’t know what that girl did to me, but I haven’t been right since. I can’t eat, or sleep, and I don’t dream. And all the things I used to love…leave me cold._

And for one terrifying moment, Dean thought: _that’s it._ Amara had stolen this poor shmuck’s soul; she must have done the same to Dean, back in that swirly, black vortex thing where she got so close to him, he could see each individual eyelash and feel the warmth of her – 

But it couldn’t be it, Dean thought right after. Because Dean wasn’t chopping people up with axes; he didn’t feel any latent psychopathic tendencies itching at his skin, or at least no more than usual. 

And, anyway, whatever this heaviness is, Dean’s been feeling it for longer than Amara. He thinks it settled into his bones some time during the fiasco with the Mark, but he recognizes it from before, too: when he was ready to give in to Michael, during that claustrophobic year while he waited for his deal to run out and tried desperately not to let Sammy see how terrified he was, the crushing months after Dad died, and those weeks after Sammy left for Stanford and then Dad left to hunt some stupid lead, and Dean slept in the Impala because getting a motel room for just himself felt like too much work. 

And it’s all just too much. Too much effort to fight back, now. Not when there’s so many other things to fight back against. There’s Amara and her disturbing, confusing hold she’s somehow got on Dean’s heart, and the disappointed of the one-hit-wonder hand of God thingies, and the fact that Cas – 

And he doesn’t want Sam to finish that sentence, because the answer’s _yes._

Fucking yes. Because Sammy was dead, and Dean couldn’t let Sammy stay dead. So he had to do whatever in his power to get him back, or die trying. Dean doesn’t understand what about that equation Sam finds so difficult to comprehend. And he’s just too damn tired to try to explain it again tonight. 

“Shit, Dean.” Sam sounds tired, too. Immensely tired and weighed down. And now Dean’s just added one more brick to Sammy’s burden. 

He tried to fix things by shoving that handful of pills down his throat, but it turns out he’s just made every worse. What’s new? Now they’re both on the grungy bathroom floor of some shithole motel, shivery and hurting, and it’s all Dean’s fault.

“How bad was it?” Sam asks finally. 

“They took care of it, Sam,” Dean says. He needs Sammy to believe this. The alternative isn’t something he can face. He’s not going back to see a doctor. 

“Clearly,” Sam scoffs. He drags his eyes open and shoots Dean a scathing look. Dean wants to wither away on the spot. He’s never felt so small, so pointless, and helpless, and stupid. It’s like he’s a kid again, and Dad’s reprimanding him for a silly mistake on a hunt. And Sammy, Dean’s baby brother, isn’t supposed to be able to make Dean feel like that.

“I’m fine,” Dean whispers. It sounds like he’s begging again. A tight knot forms in his throat. “I promise, Sam.” 

But Dean doesn’t know that for sure. The truth is, Dean doesn’t know shit about overdosing. He expected the choking and convulsing at the hospital, but he’d honestly thought the naloxone and needle to the heart was enough to keep him going. It certainly kept him on his feet long enough to get through the debacle with Corbin and awake in the waiting room while Sammy got stitched up. 

He hadn’t really given much thought to whether or not he was okay when he climbed behind the Impala’s wheel, Sam crawling into the passenger side, barely conscious from the post-op meds. Dean got through about four hours of driving before his brain went alarmingly fuzzy, like someone flipped a switch. 

Then Sammy’s, “Dean, fuck!” tugged Dean back to wakefulness in time to see the Impala veer off the road. The tires ground across gravel and Dean instinctively yanked the wheel back toward the asphalt. The car bumped over the lip of the road. Dean hissed in pain as his ribs wrenched in protest. Sam yelped pathetically and clutched his arm tighter to his injured side, pain meds evidently worn off. 

“Dude, what the hell?” Sam demanded through gritted teeth, breathing fast through pain. 

“Sorry fuck,” Dean said at once. He blinked to clear the gray film from his vision and raised a hand to dig his fingers into his eyes. His hands were shaking, a nearly imperceptible, fine tremor like a crackle of electricity coursing through his whole body. And he managed to convince Sam he was just dead beat, that the clinic had given him something for his ribs that had taken more out of him then he anticipated. 

Sammy was too drowsy with pain and drugs to question it when Dean pulled off at the nearest motel. 

And Dean certainly hadn’t expected this: curled up on a bathroom floor with desperate, explosive nausea, the fixed ache in his body, throbbing in his skull, and crippling stomach cramps. He doesn’t know what any of this means. Part of him – a thready, scared part of him that needs to shut up – wonders whether he is supposed to be in a hospital right now, just to make sure his insides don’t liquify, or some shit, and start pouring out of his nostrils. 

“_Dean,_” Sammy’s voice is sharp with alarm, like maybe it’s not the first time he’s said Dean’s name. He nudges Dean’s shoulder and Dean rocks slightly against the bathtub. “You with me, man?” 

“M with you, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. 

“Dean,” Sam swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He looks at his hands. “I really think, maybe –”

“No,” Dean says flatly. He levers himself up on an unsteady arm. His head swims. His stomach clenches. Sam twitches to help, but Dean shoots him a glare. “Don’t touch me,” he mutters. 

Sammy’s arms fold back across his stomach. 

Gradually, laboriously, Dean manages to drag himself into a sitting position. He leans heavily against the wall. He gulps air to settle his stomach, and sweat slithers down the side of his head, despite the fact that he’s still cold as balls and shaking. 

He sits so he’s the mirror image of Sam: knees drawn toward his chest, toes pointed to the toilet; it’s an easy lunge away, in case the contents of his stomach want to make another bid for freedom, but he thinks he might be okay, for now. He swallows and grimaces; his mouth tastes disgusting.

Meanwhile, Sam’s being much too quiet. It sets Dean’s teeth on edge, because he’s still expecting his brother to yell at him for something. 

“You can’t drag me out of here by yourself,” Dean says fiercely, in case Sam’s still entertaining foolish ideas about a hospital. 

“I could call an ambulance,” Sam says, softly, thoughtfully, like he only meant to say it to himself. 

Dean’s body tenses. His throat closes and jaw clenches. A buzzing starts up in the back of his head; right at the start of his spinal cord. Dean knows a threat when he hears one. And he knows panic when he feels it. 

“I – I don’t need…Sammy, I’m _fine,_” Dean forces through numb lips. “I’m fine.” 

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. He shoves himself upward, grimacing at the strain on his core. He grabs the edge of the sink to help himself stand. “Sure,” he says. 

Dean looks at his knees. Maybe Sam’s going to leave now, finally annoyed enough by Dean just to go away. It’s what Dean wanted anyway; Sam was never supposed to know. 

“Can you stand?” Sam’s voice has lost its edge. He sounds painfully kind. Dean’s eyes itch. 

“Not a fucking invalid,” Dean mutters. 

“Shut up, man,” Sam says back. He bends at the waist and groans. Dean’s ears prick at the sound and he rises to meet Sammy’s hands, more to stop his brother from hurting himself more than from any genuine desire to get vertical; Dean’s not entirely sure that’s in his repertoire just yet. 

His arms and legs vibrate violently as he engages his muscles. Sam’s hands, surprising sturdy for all he’s been through tonight, curl under Dean’s shoulders and pulls him upright. Dizziness sloshes through Dean’s brain and he slumps against the wall. He would have slid all the way back to the floor if it wasn’t for Sam’s arm that brace him around the middle. 

“Whoa, man,” Sam says, voice solid, an anchor for Dean’s sloppy brain to snatch ahold of. “I got you.” 

“Got you,” Dean echoes stupidly. His vision is still bobbing in an out of focus, morphing everything into bubbling, wobbly shapes, but he thinks he sees Sammy’s pale lips sneak into a grin. 

“Come on, Dean,” his little brother says. He ducks under one of Dean’s impossibly heavy arms, draws one of his own arms around Dean’s back, and keeps the other securely against Dean’s belly. “You think you’re gonna be sick again, or are you okay for hitting the sack?”

“M sorry, S’mmy,” Dean says instead. The change in altitude has stolen the ability for comprehensive conversation he’d briefly gained during his time on the bathroom floor.

Sam just exhales. “I know, man.” 

They hobble together out of the bathroom. Sam manages to flick the light off as they come through the door, and the room plunges once again into darkness. Dean didn’t realize how badly the light was hurting his head until it’s gone. 

Finally, Dean’s knees bump against a bed and Sam lowers him toward the mattress. The world spins brutally and Dean gags as his mouth fills with saliva. Sam says something soothing, like _sshhh, man, you’re okay,_ which is dumb because Dean’s not _five,_ and then says, “Listen, the can’s right by your side, so if you’re gonna puke, puke to your left.” 

“Mmh,” Dean hums. Forming actually words is so totally overrated, and Dean’s done with that crap. 

Sam’s fingers find Dean’s pulse under his jaw. “Your vitals are shit, dude,” he says grumpily.

Dean can’t tell if that’s a reprimand, or not. Probably is. Dean probably deserves it. He doesn’t care. He’s back to just being really cold now. His teeth are chattering. Sam swears and shuffles around the room some more. Hands haul Dean forward in the bed and someone stuffs a couple pillows behind his back, angling Dean upward. Dean can feel too-long hair tickle his cheek, so it’s probably Sammy. 

“That’ll help you breathe,” Sam says. Then he draws a blanket and heavy quilt up to Dean’s chest. “You’re a jerk, you know that, right?”

“Bitch,” Dean whispers. 

“Shut up,” Sam says. 

“Sammy?” Dean’s eyes snap open, which doesn’t help, because it’s pitch black in the room, but he can still find some sort of giant shifting shadow which he thinks is his brother, standing by the foot of the bed. 

“What is it, Dean?” Sam says wearily.

“Take more pain meds, kay?” Dean says. 

Sam huffs through his nose, something that might be a laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. And Dean’s afraid that maybe he won’t, but a minute later he hears the rattle of a pill bottle and Dean lets himself relax against the pillows. 

Almost on cue, like his body senses there’s relief within reach that Dean’s not allowed to have, a pulse of pain rips through Dean’s body, radiating outward from his stomach; it’s less intense than the one in the bathroom, but Dean still can’t help a whine from escaping through tight lips. 

The mattress drips on Dean’s right side as Sam joins him on the bed. Sam’s hand falls on Dean’s forearm and squeezes firmly. “Ride it out, man. You’re good.” 

“S-shit,” Dean whispers, as the pain leaves and he wilts. 

“Yeah, well,” Sam says, humor ringing woodenly and unconvincingly through his words, “Consider it a warning not to try this again.” 

The mattress shifts again under Sam’s weight, but it’s not Sam getting out of the bed, it’s him getting into a more comfortable position, tugging gently against the covers so he’s stretched out next to Dean. Dean can feel the warmth of his brother’s body, and it helps a little to ease the aching chill in his bones. 

“Dude,” Dean protests, picking slowly at the syllables to make sure they’re all correct. “Did you put me in your bed?”

“Gotta keep an eye on you, Dean,” Sammy says readily, but his voice sounds a little hazy now; maybe it’s because of the Vicodin Sam’s just downed, or maybe it’s just the fact that Dean’s head is stuffed with cotton. “Make sure you keep breathing during the night and all that jazz.” 

“Whatever,” Dean says. “I wake up in the middle of the night and find you spooning me, I swear to God –”

“You smell like ass, man,” Sammy mutters back. 

They haven’t slept in the same bed since they were teenagers, when Dad would only ever get a motel with two doubles. It isn’t exactly comfortable, but that’s owing more to the fact that Sam usually sleeps on his side and Dean sleeps on his belly, and neither of them are going to be able to shift into their regular positions due to their injuries. 

“You are…” Dean works his throat around the words, “ass, man.”

Sam snorts. “Dean?”

“What?” Dean snaps. 

“Go to sleep.” 

“Screw you,” Dean nudges his shoulder softly against Sammy’s arm. The heat coming off his brother is steady and soothing, and Dean doesn’t think too hard about pulling his arm back to his side of the bed. And Sammy doesn’t grumble about it, so Dean leaves it there. Dean can hear Sam breathing in the dark, but it’s nice to be able to feel it, too. 

There it is: the stark, overwhelming relief that Sammy isn’t dead. It washes over Dean like a tidal wave, and for a second it’s hard to draw breath. Dean remembers the icy fingers of dread that closed around his heart when he saw his brother’s lifeless, bloody body on the floor, a grip that didn’t loose one bit until Dean choked down that handful of pills, and that won’t, ultimately, ever let go entirely. 

“Sammy?” Dean whispers through the dark. It’s easier to say it in the dark, because Sam won’t be able to look over and see Dean’s red-ringed eyes. He can maybe hear the hitch in Dean’s voice, but maybe Sam will chalk it up to another muscle spasm. 

Dean’s right; Sammy sounds alarmed when he answers, “What do you need?” 

“I’m glad you’re not dead.” 

Sammy huffs another maybe-laugh, but the sound is too heavy to carry any genuine amusement. “Yeah,” Sam says. “Me too, man.” 

Dean isn’t sure if Sam means that he’s also glad he’s not dead, or if he’s glad _Dean’s_ not dead. Either way, the end result is the same: that Sammy’s still there to say anything at all. And that’s all that ever matters.


End file.
